


The Train Affair

by cognomen, MayGlenn



Series: Man Has Only Two Masters [4]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dancing, F/M, Knotting, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, are they fucking here or there?, are they fucking in the rain?, are they fucking on a train?, yes they're fucking everywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-09-15 12:46:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16933494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayGlenn/pseuds/MayGlenn
Summary: “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Director Waverly? Do you  have news for us, another mission perhaps?”“Are we taking those on again?” Waverly wonders, with a certain lilt in his voice.“Of course,” Illya cuts in, striding forward and laying a hand on Napoleon’s shoulder, unsure who is covering for whom. “Napoleon’s disappearance was...a misunderstanding. If that bastard  Sanders wants to go back on his deal, you tell him I'll…”“You'll what, Mr. Kuryakin?” Waverly replies mildly. “I don't know that Oleg is very pleased with you at the moment, so I'd not try to call in any favors.”Illya looks chastened, or at least uncomfortable. “I was protecting a valuable asset for UNCLE.”“As it turns out you were,” Waverly says, airily. “And you’ve all become assets for UNCLE, and solely for UNCLE as of this point.”





	1. Chapter 1

Of course, even Napoleon’s connections can’t keep them out of Waverly’s sights forever, but he wishes, at times, that the man didn’t have such damnably bad timing. Napoleon has barely enough time to roll his sleeves up and throw a bunch of maps and museum information pamphlets onto the coffee table after he spots Waverly coming up the walk, just so he can stage himself as cleaning them up when Waverly walks in.

“Good afternoon, Waverly,” he says, raising his voice as their handler lets himself in without much ceremony. “Just in time. Gaby’s ankle is healing well.”

He sits down on the table, as if hiding the evidence of a heist in planning. “Won’t you sit down? I can make some tea.”

From the other room there comes the sound of panicked dressing, but Waverly either doesn't or pretends not to hear. Instead, he inspects the papers under Napoleon’s seat, taking the bait. “Planning a day trip, Solo?”

“Well, I thought it best to appreciate the culture here, given that our last trip through was such a whirlwind,” Napoleon answers, eyes locked on Waverly’s and carefully smooth. “Don’t you think? Did you know they’re opening a casino here next year? The very first proper casino in Turkey.”

“Sounds like just your kind of haunt,” Waverly said, with that irritating air of playing delightfully dumb that made you wonder just how much he knew or guessed—about everything. “I say, I rather expected to see Ms. Teller or Mr. Kuryakin about. I thought they might like to…” 

Illya came out of the bedroom, looking just a little flushed. “Sorry. I was just, ah, checking on Gaby. She is resting now, I wouldn’t like to bother her.”

Napoleon almost sighs at the clumsiness of the cover, but he lets it go, instead getting up and going to put tea on. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Director Waverly? Do you  have news for us, another mission perhaps?”

“Are we taking those on again?” Waverly wondered, with a certain lilt in his voice. 

“Of course,” Illya cuts in, striding forward and laying a hand on Napoleon’s shoulder, unsure who is covering for whom. “Napoleon’s disappearance was...a misunderstanding. If that bastard  Sanders wants to go back on his deal, you tell him I'll…”

“You'll what, Mr. Kuryakin?” Waverly replies mildly. “I don't know that Oleg is very pleased with you at the moment, so I'd not try to call in any favors.”

Illya looks chastened, or at least uncomfortable. “I was protecting a valuable asset for UNCLE.”

“As it turns out you were,” Waverly says, airily. “And you’ve all become assets for UNCLE, and  _ solely _ for UNCLE as of this point.”

Napoleon presses tea into Waverly’s hands, and then passes a cup to Illya to steady him. “I’m sorry if I’m the first person to tell you this, but I’m serving a commuted sentence—”

“Not anymore. I called in rather a large number of favors, making the sort of gamble you earlier accused me of, Mr. Solo,” Waverly says. “Though I wouldn’t try to return to America any time soon—or perhaps ever.”

Illya has taken a sip of tea, and actually spits it out, if mostly back into his cup. “You mean he is free?”

“Free to go everywhere but the fifty United States and territories. Even I couldn't call in quite that many favors, I'm afraid. And free of Sanders. Between you and I, he seemed relieved.” Waverly glanced down at the pamphlets. “But if you're up to your old tricks, I'm not sure how long it will last…?”

Illya is grinning. He almost wants to take Napoleon up in his arms and spin him around. 

“I’m only window shopping, my good man,” Napoleon promises, trading a look with Illya.

“You were rather on thin ice as well, Kuryakin,” Waverly informs Illya, in all seriousness. “In fact, I would deeply appreciate it if any future lover’s quarrels could be resolved without any more international incidents. We’ve got some rather lofty backers now, of necessity. It’s time for this team to pay dividends on the investment made.”

He fixes each of them with a long look, and then seems to subside back into himself. “As for the rest of it, this charade is entirely unnecessary, I assure you. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t extend the effort on my behalf, though It would behoove you to keep it out of the public eye.”

Illya stammers. “I-I don't—there is no charade…”

“No, of course not, and it shouldn't leave this room.” Waverly agrees, “except I'm sure Ms. Teller would do better listening in if she were actually in the room. Your secrets are safe with me, and should be, if we're to trust each other.”

Gaby throws open the door, wearing nothing but a robe and her cast. “You knew about us this whole time?”

Waverly gives her a wry look. “What sort of spymaster would I be, otherwise? You can rest assured I don’t give a damn.”

Napoleon arches his eyebrows and looks at the other two, but offers nothing except a smile—and a cup of tea for Gaby.

“Now, all that said,” Waverly continues, giving each of them a look in turn to see if they have anything else to say. “How’s your leg, Ms. Teller?”

“Irritating, but I don't have to forgive Napoleon until the cast comes off,” she says, sitting down as though this were a tea party. “Two weeks.” 

Illya goes to put his hand on her shoulder, almost as if he doesn't believe Waverly and wants to test him. “We have a job?”

“A two-man jaunt; sorry, Ms. Teller, but you'll be driving getaway only for this one. Can you manage a car one-footed?”

“I can manage a car one-footed and blindfolded,” she says, absolutely confident. 

“I just need a few documents retrieved,” Waverly says. “There’ll be ample opportunity at a house party in London proper. A little dancing, a little charm and you’re in. With a little luck no one will realize you’ve even acted. I’d appreciate it if you could keep this job from becoming a spectacle. That means no fist fights or car chases.”

“So you're sending in  _ me _ ?” Illya asks, self-aware enough for that. 

“You're excellent undercover, Kuryakin,” Waverly says, and Illya wishes his confidence could make it true. “Besides, Ms. Teller can hardly attend a dancing function with her leg, so.”

Illya blinks. “Dancing.”

“Certainly,” Napoleon says. “Surely we can dance without causing a scene.”

“At least not the sort of scene you don’t  _ want _ to,” Gaby puts in, amused. “I’m almost sorry I’ll miss it.”

“We’ll give you the highlights, as always,” Napoleon assures her. 

“I’ve booked you passage back on a train,” Waverly says. “Should be low profile, and it will give you a chance to keep your leg elevated, Ms. Teller.”

Illya wonders if there will be time to teach him how to  _ dance _ . 

“The details are all here,” Waverly says, laying an envelope on the table in front of Gaby, and draining the last of his tea. “I'll contact you when it's over. Cheerio!”

Illya sits heavily when he is gone. “So he knows.”

“Not everyone is as backward-thinking as you,” Gaby says, but Illya isn’t even offended.

“He knows, but he won’t hold it over us,” Napoleon assures him. “And if he doesn’t care, I don’t see any reason why we should.”

Napoleon leans over and kisses Illya on the cheek, then Gaby. “Don’t worry, Peril, I can teach you to waltz. Gaby can help, there’s nothing quite like a dance partner with one wooden leg to teach you to be better at it. Now let’s see those files.”

“How do we know he won't, though?” Illya asks mostly himself, taking Gaby’s hand. The dancing is something he'll figure out, but he feels unsettled knowing that his employer knows this dangerous secret about him, more than he is relieved. No spy agency wanted members who could be so easily compromised. Government bureaucracies didn’t even want people like them. Waverly had to be mad, or stupid, or maybe planning something himself.  

“He didn’t, even when Sanders must have tried to tell him,” Gaby says, leading Napoleon around in a few hobbling dance steps. “And he’s not like that. Come on, he got Napoleon out of his trouble with the American authorities.”

“Well,” Napoleon temporizes, but instead of arguing further, he extends his hand to Illya in clear invitation to dance. “I’m more confident we could take on Waverly than we could my government or your own, so better the devil we know, am I right?”

Illya doesn’t say anything, but follows Gaby’s shuffle-dancing around the flat, letting her lead him, though he notes that this doesn’t help  _ him _ learn how to lead. Gaby, perhaps thinking the same thing, spins him off into Napoleon’s waiting arms and returns to her seat.

He must be still making a sour face when he looks at Napoleon, because Napoleon is smiling a too-charming smile. 

“I am not going to be able to do this,” Ilya confesses.

“You can and you will,” Napoleon says, positioning Illya’s hands on the right places, one at Napoleon’s hip, and the other joined with his and outstretched gracefully. For his part, Napoleon tucks his hand behind Illya’s arm and presses his palm at Illya’s shoulder. “And you’ll have to lead, or it’ll cause a scandal.”

Napoleon shifts back a step, and waits for Illya to follow; he steps forward, Napoleon steps back. “Besides, you won’t embarrass me, will you, Peril?”

Illya growls. “You’re the one who is going to embarrass me. Being so handsome and flirting so shamelessly with everyone else.” 

But it works, and Illya even laughs after a few steps. 

“Okay, no. You must explain the steps,” he blurts out, frustrated with Napoleon’s ability to divine these movements from thin air, as it seems. 

“Pretend the floor is a chess board,” Gaby suggests, but whether to Napoleon the teacher or to Illya the student they are not entirely sure. 

“Yes, the first step is a box,” Napoleon says, explaining. “Think of it as drawing a square with your feet; your step forms the top of the box and mine the bottom. So. Forward, like so, then to the side to form the line of the top of the box, your first foot moves to the second; there.”

Napoleon smiles at him, tilting Illya’s chin up with both their hands joined together quickly. “Chin up, the floor isn’t dancing with you. Now step back, and then out to the side, draw the line at the top of the box by bringing your feet together again. That’s it, box step.”

Gaby watches from the couch with some amusement, but Illya is nothing if not a fast learner once his honor has been challenged.

“For once I have you at a disadvantage, much to my surprise,” Napoleon says as they repeat the steps, tracing shapes together before Napoleon swings them a half turn. “No, don’t change your motion, just turn it. Same thing again now. I’d have expected that as a matter of honor, all little Alpha boys in Russia must learn ballet and the waltz, at least. Did you miss your debutante?” 

“We did learn,” Illya says. “But the dance is different in Russia. And...I was never very good. They say, ‘Oh, he can kill anything, we don't need him to dance’ and stopped trying.”

“You can teach me the Russian version sometime,” Napoleon says.

Illya thinks he's too tall, he's sure, and everyone will see him, and no matter how good he becomes, everyone will still spot the huge Russian on the dance floor and laugh. 

But he's managing this step. He will manage.

And everyone, including him, will be wondering how this pretty, graceful omega had chosen him—and  _ if _ .

“Now the rise and fall,” Napoleon says. “You roll your weight. Step flat, then as you begin to lift yourself to the next step, your weight goes onto the ball of your foot, then your toe, then off. In time, please. I know you can do this, I’ve seen your footwork in a fight.”

This takes a little more doing to coordinate, but Napoleon is a patient teacher. In the end, it isn’t perfect, but passable. “And you didn’t even step on my feet, Peril. Very good, we’ll practice more on the train. “

Drawing away, Napoleon pauses to lean down and kiss Gaby’s cheek, lifting her up into a dance where he lets her rest her cast on his foot like so many fathers and daughters, though she keeps time admirably even so. “I can’t wait until this cast is off, either, you know. The pair of you will look lovely dancing.” 

“I owe her one,” Illya says, sitting down to watch them, finding them achingly beautiful together. Even with one foot in a cast, Gaby is far more graceful than he is. Finally, he sighs roughly: “Curse your soft bones, Gaby. You should be on this mission instead of me.” 

Gaby huffs, not sure if she should be offended or laugh. “Well it was either my foot or Napoleon’s, and it would be harder to explain why two alphas are attending the ball together.” 

She winks. “Also, we know how buggy Napoleon gets if he’s cooped up.” 

“Easier to keep track of, though,” Illya responds, trying to joke, though there’s still a hint of venom in there to cover up an old wound. Wishing he hadn’t said it, he gets up again abruptly. “I’m going to pack our things.” 

Napoleon doesn’t defend himself, knowing that only time will heal some wounds, and his actions will decide the rest. “Next time you can douse yourself in beta pheromones and escort her yourself, of course. All for the mission.” 

“Never again!” Illya calls from the other room, making Gaby smile. 

“He did as much for you just weeks ago,” she murmurs for Napoleon, but doesn’t particularly care if Illya overhears her.

Napoleon leaves Gaby gently, putting her feet up for her before he goes to pack his  _ own _ things, lest he find Illya applying some revenge on his clothes. Besides, he has an order in which things belong. Better to help. 

“You will do fine, you know,” Napoleon says. “You give yourself far too little credit. Certainly it’s not harmful to your ego to have other skills in addition to stopping cars with your bare hands?”

Illya does not laugh at this, but his mouth tightens into a tight line to keep from smiling. 

“Of course I will be  _ fine _ .” He mastered the equivalent of a black belt in Judo in less than a year for a mission. Of course he will be fine. Nor does it impugn his honor to know how to dance. It’s actually worse that he only adequate. 

Illya is shoving things into grocery bags, since they are still woefully underequipped after their last mission. It makes packing a quick affair, however. 

“I am too tall for dancing,” he admits, after a moment. “Too tall for being a spy, even, really. Everyone will notice me.” 

“I happen to like how tall you are,” Napoleon assures him. His first order of business had been to acquire a proper garment bag, but he had little else aside from his toiletry kit, and once everything was assembled, he helped Illya hang Gaby’s remaining dresses for travel as well, encasing them in a leftover drycleaning bag to keep them neat. “Besides, for someone too tall to be a spy, you’ve overcome your handicap just fine. Or were you thinking of retiring to some… _ taller _ profession?” 

This Illya does chuckle at. “Do you mean like American basketball, maybe?” 

Does Napoleon  _ really  _ like how tall he is? The thought is distracting, and makes Illya feel like this relationship is brand new, in a way that is both exciting and irritating. “Anyway, not really. You spotted me within minutes of me beginning to tail you in Berlin. Too hard to blend in.” 

“I happened to look twice,” Napoleon says, hoisting both his bag and Gaby’s over his shoulder, pausing to reach out and run his hand over Illya’s shoulders, “because I found you attractive. Then I realized you were  _ staring _ at me. It wasn’t your height that gave you away, it was the daggers your eyes were trying to plant in my back.”

Illya huffs again, charmed a second time, and letting himself fall for it. “So you are saying I am just not a good spy, after all, is that it?” 

He’s teasing back, just a little. “I was only trying to plant daggers because I found you attractive, as well…  _ Oméga fatale _ , or something.” 

Napoleon laughs, a short, surprised sound. “I’ve had time to figure out how to make my unusual size work for me. What a set the three of us are together, hmm? Anyway, if that’s how you flirt, it’s no wonder you and I aren’t the same sort of spy.”

He arches his eyebrows, and supposes they’ll always be a little starstruck by each other, and Napoleon decides he likes it. He likes it far more when things are easy between them, and so he decides that it’s worth the work to keep it there. To behave as often as he can. It would ease Illya’s mind if he made a promise, but Napoleon knows better than to give his word when he can’t keep it. Instead he’ll try to keep it without giving it, as often as he can.

“Let’s catch a train, shall we?” Napoleon beckons. 


	2. Chapter 2

Napoleon’s proud of Illya, he truly is. Perhaps the both of them sell the play of drama between them a little too well; the memory is close in their minds of when things had truly been difficult between them. But before all that, they waltz, and Napoleon feels well matched; the length of Illya’s stride, for one thing, is a good match for Napoleon’s own. With other alphas nearby to spur on his pride, he leads confidently. 

“You’re truly a marvel,” Napoleon whispers, with a faint smirk that doesn’t render the statement  _ too _ sappy. “I’m almost sad I have to fight with you.”

They fight gently; a simulated lover’s spat that calls only just some attention to them. Enough that Napoleon can hold the attention of the alpha of the house just long enough to trade places with Illya’s show of jealousy to distract the man while he picks the lock on the safe.

Illya isn’t strictly supposed to  _ fight  _ the alpha of the house, and, to be fair,  _ he  _ didn’t start it. 

But Illya takes it a little too personally when the target calls Napoleon a flirt who is just asking for it, and tosses back something too cutting about how their host could probably  _ only  _ get any by taking it or paying for it, which of course insults the man’s husband to the point that the target has no choice but to throw the first punch. 

This causes, of course, plenty of a stir for Napoleon to finish up in time for them both to be escorted firmly from the premises, with Illya’s knuckles bloodier than his lip. 

“Waverly’s going to kill you,” Gaby says when they get in the car. 

“He started it,” Illya sulks. 

“And he’s going to remember you when he finds the documents missing,” Napoleon sighs, dropping himself in the back seat. “But at least we got what we came for. I think we had better make our exit from the country while the party’s still going. I left the safe in the same condition I found it, perhaps we’ll have several days.”

“I doubt it,” Gaby says, but she takes care to drive away as casually as she can before she reaches out to curl her hand over Illya’s bloodied knuckles. “Whose honor was impugned?”

“Illya’s, on my behalf I believe,” Napoleon says, quickly reviewing the documents. Nothing interesting to  _ him _ , but certainly the British government might find the records of where certain black market items were being sold to interesting. He taps the papers back into order and returns them to their folder, feeling a certain sort of peculiar. Warm, a little fuzzy. A cold, perhaps. 

“He called Napoleon a tart,” Illya huffed, though it sounds rather...weak now.  _ He’s  _ called Napoleon worse, though he’s not proud of that fact. “Maybe I thought he was going into the study and goaded him, hm?” 

Illya had only mildly suspected that the man had been losing interest in him, actually, when he had snapped. It doesn’t matter why he had goaded the man into a fight for Napoleon’s honor, now, did it? It’s done, and he can’t take it back. 

Illya sighs, and stares out the window. Finally, “I’m sorry.” 

“Well,” Napoleon says. “There may not be any need for you to be. With a little luck, Waverly can act on this information before it becomes an issue that it’s missing, Peril. And while perhaps we caused a  _ bit _ of a scene, at least this time there was no international incident.”

Quirking the corner of his mouth up in an alluring smile, Napoleon watches Illya’s profile as the lights in the night slide over his features, and then looks fondly at Gaby, at her determination as she drives with her casted foot braced carefully out of the way in the footwell, and their hands joined between them. 

“I  _ am _ a tart, after all, but he was worse,” Napoleon says. “He had his hands all over some other poor omega before you and I butted in. I’m sure her night was made better by our entrance, at least.”

“Well, at least I did not call him a rapist without cause,” Illya says. 

“You called him a  _ what _ ?” Gaby asks, taking her hand away from his to slap her forehead.

“I said he seemed like the kind of man who only has omegas he takes by force or pays for,” Illya says, exuding a self-righteousness he doesn’t really feel. “I was correct.” 

“Being right in the aftermath doesn’t mean…” Napoleon says, but he laughs instead, lets it go, leaning against the window to cool down. Was it the dancing? The excitement of safecracking, or the suit? Anyway the cool glass felt good against his cheek. “Well. What’s done is done.”

“I’m taking us to the drop point and then immediately to the train station,” Gaby says, firmly.

“Illya, you danced well,” Napoleon tells him, watching his face. “I think in this case you were just tall enough.” 

Illya half looks back, enough that Napoleon can see the small grin on his face. He puts a hand on Gaby’s leg, though she raises an eyebrow at him: not forgiven just yet, then. He removes his hand. “Thank you. You danced—well, perfectly. And Gaby is driving perfectly. And following the plan, and I am unworthy. Also...possibly drunk. A little.” 

He realizes this quite suddenly, though he only had one glass of champagne at the ball, and surely he should have danced that off by now. 

“Punch drunk, perhaps,” Napoleon allows. But he agrees, there’s more warmth and fuzzy good-natured feelings drifting in his thoughts than normal, to the point where he schools himself into composure before making the drop for one of Waverly’s men to recover. At least it had gone well enough that they hadn’t been followed—or chased—from the scene.

Napoleon returns to the car. “Well then, mistress Gaby, where are we headed if we’re leaving town so swiftly? I’m glad we’re packed to go.”

“The train,” she says again. “Immediately.” 

She sounds—no longer frustrated, or angry, if she was before, but tight. Like she needed to go to the toilet or was about to go into a rut or something. 

“Everything all right, зайка?” he asks her. Maybe he is punch-drunk, because he finds himself wanting to wait on her hand and foot. 

“Eugh, the drunker you get the worse your pet names get,” Gaby says, but she laughs, and gives a significant look to the rearview mirror. “I’m fine. I hope we have a private car, Napoleon?” 

“One can be arranged,” Napoleon says, uncertain about her tight tone. Had they done so poorly she’d gone cold? “Intending on catching up on your beauty sleep?”

It’s  _ then _ that he realizes, when Illya reaches back to settle a hand on his knee, exactly  _ what _ it is that he’s feeling. Not a cold, or even too much warmth from the dancing. Napoleon loosens his tie, and tips his chin in the other direction, as if he could will his body into  _ not _ . No wonder the alphas had been so keyed up as to fight. And for the second time in six months.

Living with two alphas is going to kill him. 

“En suite and everything,” Illya also requests, allowing indulgences when he knows it will make his alpha and his omega happier. His body knows, or suspects, even if he doesn't. 

“As best we can get in a train car,” Napoleon agrees, for practicality’s sake. 

They arrive at the train station quickly after the drop point: they know that they and the information they stole are going different ways, but that's all they know. It’s not very busy, given the late hour: probably many who were on this train were already on it and sleeping. 

Illya squeezes Napoleon’s knee and then lets him go. “I’ll get the bags, you get tickets.”

“Illya, I’m not an invalid,” Gaby growls, and Illya risks kissing her in the darkened car. 

“I know, but it’s a bit of the walk from the car lot to the train, and I’m going to let you walk it on your own. How’s that?” He grins. 

Napoleon arranges the tickets for passage and pays the premium for a double sleeper car out of pocket. Perhaps he can hold off until they reach their destination, at least. He’ll take a cold shower. Then again, he looks at the tickets and discovers they have a five day journey by train. A faintly amusing thought occurs amidst all the warm and liquid plans in his mind. How long could the three of them resist each other in confined space?

How long before the alphas either went into rut themselves or couldn’t help but touch him? Then again, he bets they can hold on until he gives them permission, and by then it might be…well, he’d like to see the results.

Napoleon offers his arm to help Gaby up into the car, though he lets her navigate the stairs on her own.

She gets one good scent of him, and Napoleon knows at least half is game is up. 

“You are impossible,” she hisses, hoisting herself up the last stair. 

“Hmm,” is all Napoleon answers, warm and fond. 

Illya insists that Napoleon boards first, ushering him on ahead of him, still playing the protective husband, or so he tells himself. They don’t know who could be watching, after all. 

The whistle blows as he steps off the platform, and in the corridor Illya comes face to face with another alpha who won’t let him through. His size is enough to match Illya’s, even, and Illya puts himself between Gaby and Napoleon and this stranger. 

The stranger actually scoffs and moves past, and Illya is seconds away from following him and starting a fight when Gaby grabs his sleeve. 

“He was  _ looking  _ at you two,” Illya hisses. 

“Oh my  _ God _ , Illya,” Gaby says. 

“Well, you were looking at him,” Napoleon says, cheerfully, and hooks his arm through Illya’s opposite, guiding him toward their car. “No need to fight over it, we’re coming with  _ you _ .”

Napoleon hangs up their luggage on the bar, and then examines the tiny bathroom and finds it about as satisfactory as one gets on a train car. The rest is nearly luxurious; a small desk, a settee, and two beds for appearances. Smaller than they might like, but big enough for them to fit with some dedication. 

Napoleon undoes his tie, and divests himself of his jacket and shoes, finding the carpet surprisingly plush under his socked feet, and he pours himself a drink from the bar and settles in to wait. 

Illya still vibrates with jealousy, even though he knows there is no logical reason for it. He needs to calm down, and leaves the cabin abruptly.

“Well now you've done it,” Gaby says, though she's more amused than concerned. “Are you going to tell him? And don't you want to get undressed?”

“I’m sure he’ll realize,” Napoleon says, in his shirtsleeves, which might as well be undressed. “Besides, I was thinking about an exercise in self-control.”

He drapes himself on the settee, indolent with his drink balanced on one slack thigh and looks at her, watching the changes write themselves slowly in her physiology. 

“For you or him?” Gaby asks, shifting uncomfortably. “Are you going out or staying in until someone ravages you?”

“Staying in,” Napoleon says. “Which suggests that it would be an exercise in self control for both of us. All of us, unless you’re immune.”

He smiles at her, tempting and mischievous and prim, putting the lip of his glass against his own lips and continuing to drink until he finishes his glass, and then sets it aside. 

Gaby laughs. “I can tell you from experience, this sort of flirting will get you nowhere with Illya.  _ He's  _ immune.”

“I wonder…” Napoleon says, just a little wistful.

She wonders if Napoleon will ask them, or if he wants to see them suffer first, or beg. 

“I am...patient,” she finally ventures, enjoying the game already.

“I want to see what happens when we reach the end of our patience,” Napoleon promises. “I’m only sorry about your foot.”

“My foot is just fine lying down,” Gaby says wryly. 

He brings her a drink next, and pours a second for himself, before resettling, eyes on her while they wait for Illya. “Do you think he’s starting trouble out there? Hunting down that alpha? I’ll be put out if they throw us off the train.” 

“He had better  _ not  _ be,” she says, throwing back a large gulp of the whiskey. 

As if summoned, Illya appears wordlessly, holding a box under one arm. He sets it down on the small table and reveals that it is a chess set. 

So it was going to be  _ that  _ kind of a night. 

Napoleon watches him set up, apparently interested in the process, though he makes no effort to move any closer to Illya, or to do anything else except watch, and Gaby settles on the bed, putting her foot up and out of the way of the narrow walking space between the furniture.  After Illya gets set up, Napoleon leans to pass Gaby a note underhanded, so Illya won’t notice.

_ Fancy a wager on how many moves he gets in before he realizes? _

Gaby snorts, snatching the note guiltily as Illya looks up. “Will someone play with me?” 

“Of course I will play with you, Leibling,” she says, scribbling down a number four. It’s only fair that they both play with him a little bit. 

“You play white?” Illya asks, absorbed in the chess board, and willfully ignoring  _ everything  _ around him. His hands are twitching. He is jealous, but he didn’t know why. He is mad at Napoleon but also wants to fuck him into the mattress. Gaby is infuriatingly pretty. And if he started thinking, for an instant, that they were in danger on this train, that he needed to keep his attention anywhere else but on this chess board, he would probably go ballistic and murder the next person he saw. 

Gaby moved her two spaces: fast and aggressive. 

Illya also moved quickly, surprising both of them, and six moves transpired between them before either of them paused. 

Napoleon actually sat up, now interested in the game in spite of himself. Part of him was really enjoying watching the two alphas compete, bleed off aggression over a game of strategy.  He might have to revise his plans to include them ravaging  _ each other _ before they get to him, and he’s perfectly alright with that.

“Very aggressive today,” Gaby observes, watching Napoleon unbutton the top three buttons of his shirt over Illya’s shoulder with an excellent poker face, despite how her attention laser focuses for an instant on the motion. “Can I trick you into making a hasty mistake?”

“Not today,” Illya says, also laser focused. He sees ten possible outcomes, at least five moves out. He smells—something different in the air, but he doesn’t pay attention to it. His dick is hard, which he actually doesn’t notice until Gaby takes his hand across the table. He startles at it, actually, eyes snapping up to hers. Warm brown, her lashes long, mouth sweet and just barely parted. And in the bed just beyond her, Napoleon lounges, all blue eyes and long legs. Illya refocuses on the game, and moves. 

Then he stands up, upsetting the game. 

“Are you in  _ heat _ ?!” 

“That was eight,” Napoleon says, satisfied and amused to be noticed at last. The room is starting to feel warm, but Napoleon is still only on the ragged edge before his heat, nearing the first point of desperate want, but well before  _ need. _ “A multiple of four.”

He shifts a little, but doesn't beckon them closer, yet. Napoleon knows them, trusts them to hold to the last possible second, even cooped up like this.

“Go on and finish the game, Illya,” he purrs, as warmth migrates south in him, readying his body in slow waves that will soon bring slick.

Illya looks between them, missing something. 

“Are we going to bed, Cowboy?” he asks. Then his face darkens, and a hole threatens to open up. “Or are you going...out?” 

“Illya,” Gaby says, to call his attention back. “He's here, isn't he?”

“I am,” Napoleon agrees, lounging with all the coiled tension and languid effect of a leopard. “Have you gone into rut to match? Serves you right, with all your hormones playing havoc with my biology.”

“I don’t...” Illya begins, cataloguing awareness of himself, of Napoleon and Gaby. This hasn’t happened for years. “Probably?” 

But he’s not going to just assume. Even in a rut, he’s not an animal. “Do you—?” 

His hands are still shaking. He’s still standing, his head actually brushing the top of the small cabin. Napoleon isn’t throwing himself at them, or any of those other unspoken cues that mean  _ yes _ . Illya makes a noise and tries again. “Napoleon. Do you want us for this heat?” 

“ _ Yes _ ,” Napoleon hisses, impressed by Illya’s rounding toward sense and consent, and in the back of his mind the omega part is utterly thrilled by his size, by his power, by the way Illya and Gaby smell, contrasting scents that combine like a good cocktail. “But I want you to wait. Until someone gives in. Can you?”

Illya blinks. “I am ready now. Are you not…?” 

Gaby sighs, taking Illya’s hand and pulling him back down. “Like a game, Illya. A test.”

She puts his palm flat on the chessboard, bending down to kiss the back of his knuckles. “Napoleon thinks the results will be better if we all wait until we can’t anymore.”

“A match of my nature against yours,” Napoleon agrees, shifting again. “Someone will beg for it eventually, and then he—or she—will have it. But who’s pride breaks before their inner beast?”

Illya looks between them, still baffled. His pride is among the least of his concerns right now: wasn’t that what they wanted from him? He was trying to be better! “But what if I don’t—” 

“Damn your Russian pride, Illya!” Gaby laughs. “Appearing when we don’t want it and gone again when we do!” 

She grabs his lapels and kisses him. “A  _ game _ , love. Who begs first?” 

Illya is in fact already glad to beg. But if they  _ want  _ him to wait, well, he can do anything they ask of him, of course: here his pride and competitiveness are piqued. He sits carefully, and re-sets the board, exactly as it was, without needing to think to recall it. 

“But does he want me to beg, or just take?  _ If  _ I were to break first, which I will not be,” Illya says. “Your move.” 

“Hmm, a very good question,” Gaby says, considering what move to make in response, now that the board is set back up. “Napoleon, dear, which rules apply to which side?”

“I’d love to see what Illya looks like when he loses his admirable ability to restrain himself,” Napoleon says. “But I’ll settle for begging, if it comes to that.”

“What if  _ I _ give in first?” Gaby wonders, bright eyed, pleased with the game. She takes her chess move at last. 

“You won’t,” Napoleon sounds utterly sure of himself, as he shifts onto his front, feeling the first trickles of slick sticky in his underclothes. “It will be me or him. You, my darling, are utterly unbreakable.” 

“Except for your weak ankles,” Illya teases, but his grin is so _ cute  _ she can't but let him get away with it. He moves, and then turns to Napoleon. “Should you not lay on towel or something? We may be here some time, and I do not want you making mess.”

“Take off your shirt and hand it to me,” Napoleon says, imperiously, demanding. 

Illya finds Napoleon’s demand endearing, amusing, even, and flattering. He slings his jacket off and unbuttons the top buttons of his shirt before tearing it off, along with the undershirt. He is aware his number of shirts is limited, and that he will carry his omega’s scent on him for days, but he doesn't care. 

“Your move.”

“All  _ right _ . It's hard to think in here.”

Not for Illya. This chess game is all that stands between himself and rut oblivion, so it's very easy to focus.

Napoleon folds the shirt under his hips, as Illya had suggested, and watches the pair of them play as he grows warmer, eventually discarding his own shirt, and the socks with it, focusing on keeping his breaths slow and deep as he watches the game, too, breathing them in and keeping his thoughts held tightly in check to the chess game. 

Holding up admirably, Gaby lets the game run on long, sure that Illya is playing out more moves in his head than he normally does, and she quirks a smile. “How do you remember them all? When was the first time you played chess?”

It’s as much to distract her as him, anyway. 

“It is just how I think,” Illya says, not letting himself be drawn into conversation. He slides a piece into place for his surprise move. “Check.”

Now to chase her across the board: the hunt is on!

Gaby scoffs, surprised by how quickly she’s been cornered, and she pauses to consider her moves, trying to keep herself focused on the game and not how Napoleon is shifting behind her, and how every time he moves she catches a whiff of his scent, getting stronger by the minute. It was tangling into her thoughts like a trap. Finally, she reaches out and makes her move, aware that Napoleon  _ has _ to be touching himself by now. She doesn’t look, she doesn’t need any further taxes on her self control. 

Behind her, Napoleon has a languid hand down the front of his pants, obscenely stroking his cock hidden behind the fabric, just slow and deliberate enough to tease himself as he waits. 

“It’s your move now,” Gaby reminds Illya, playful. 

Illya’s one mistake is critical: he looks up, and sees Napoleon stroking himself lazily, unhurriedly. Somehow, he seems collected, though he reeks of slick. Damn him. 

Illya wrenches his eyes back to the board, strategy flying from his mind, because all he sees is Napoleon stroking himself, and if he’s not mistaken, Gaby is doing the same thing under the small table. With a grunt, he forces his mind to work out three or so strategies, and executes one, cornering Gaby a second time. “Мат,” he says, then hastily corrects: “Check.” 

Gaby laughs, delighted by him, and Illya is alright with this, especially when she plays right into his hand. 

“Check _ mate _ ,” he says, but she’s only too glad to knock over her king.

“Well now how will we pass the time?” 

_ Damn it _ . 


	3. Chapter 3

“You could try checkers,” Napoleon offers, “Though then you don’t get to say ‘mate’ nearly as often.”

Gaby actually rolls her eyes at this, and leans back in her chair, one hand invisible under the table and teasing herself. She’s not sure how  _ Napoleon _ is keeping it together, really, but Illya is clearly struggling. Wickedly, she kicks off her shoes under the table and reaches out to run her uninjured foot against the inside of his calf.

“Yes, checkers. Surely we can handle that?” she says. 

Illya hisses, grabs her foot, the good one, lucky, and sets it on his knee in an iron grip where it can’t get into any mischief. “This sounds like cheating. How about cards? Give Napoleon a chance to win for once?” 

“No one cheats at checkers, Illya,” Napoleon drawls, but he gets up, brushes past the pair of them in the tight space of the cabin, and retrieves a fancy deck of cards from a cabinet, emblazoned with the train line’s name on foil gilded backs. He settles down again and shuffles the cards with a clever bridge motion that snaps them all together, before he passes them to Ilya to deal. “Poker? Or is that not Russian enough?”

“Is fine,” Illya says, concerned more with having something to focus on. He deals quickly and deftly—but so quickly that he gives Gaby and Napoleon an extra card before Gaby corrects him, and he lets her replace them into the middle of the deck. 

“I don’t know how Russian  _ I _ am, anymore,” he admits, as he looks at his cards, trying to remember what he’s trying to get. 

( _ God _ , they smell so good,  _ both  _ of them!) 

“Well,” Napoleon says, cat-pleased with himself, and feeling good enough to give in to his sense of humor. “You’re  _ rushin’ _ plenty. Is that good enough?”

Gaby nudges him with her casted foot, firmly. 

It’s not until several moments later that Illya even gets that there was a joke there. 

Napoleon arranges his cards without any sign of concern as to what’s in his hand, and takes note of what’s on the table as well, and then measures his opponents. Illya doesn’t know  _ what _ he has, though his eyes are trained on the cards. Gaby is frowning just a little, considering what best to do with what she has.

“W-what are we betting?” he finally ventures, though the knows the answer. 

“Clothes,” Gaby says immediately. She takes off her shirt and folds it neatly in front of her, eyeing the other two. 

Illya knows it’s no good arguing that Napoleon has his shirt to bargain with, and takes off both his boots, meeting her ante. 

“I’ve already taken all mine off,” Napoleon laments. Not entirely true; he’s wearing pants and, theoretically, underwear. “I’ll have to play well.”

He has to ante his pants, which is almost obscene as he eases them over his hips with both alphas watching the revelation of his thoroughly outlined dick in his damp underpants like they’d never seen it before. He folds them, even though they’ll need a real cleaning given the dark stain of slick down the inside thighs, and settles them in the middle of the table on the offered ante pile. 

“Is anyone raising?” he wonders, playful. 

“No,” Illya says, too quickly, and Gaby, spurred on by the show of weakness, unhooks her brassiere. 

“Very well, I think,” she says.

Illya groans, but adds his socks to the pile, rather petulantly. 

“Illya, we’ve  _ seen _ you naked before,” Napoleon informs him, adding Illya’s own wet shirt to the pile which still leaves him the least dressed. “But you’re not getting any of that back. I call; show me your hands.”

To no one’s surprise, Napoleon’s two kings, queen high beat Gaby’s two tens and Illya’s big fat nothing. (He actually has a pair of threes, but Gaby has to point this out.) 

Things are going blurry for Illya, and tinging pink. He wants to tear Napoleon’s flimsy, pornographically soaked underwear off him, and Gaby’s, too. Is it too early to beg? 

“Illya,” Gaby says, and he gets the impression she has said this several times. “Are you going to look at your cards?” 

Napoleon is watching Illya, feeling a the heavy weight of need coiling in his belly, enough so that when Gaby speaks (her tone carrying enough  _ alpha _ in it to provoke a response) Napoleon keeps himself from physical response only barely. He’s warm, sweating even, his body demanding satisfaction and  _ soon. _ The worst of his instincts suggest that he simply drop himself to all fours on the bunk, backside in the air, and come what may.

Despite the sticky, heavy feeling in his thoughts, he’s holding on, though it takes his thoughts off of poker enough that he loses the next hand with his teeth clenched over his lip, and is grateful he could pay into the pot with their own clothes back to them.

The last thing Illya remembers is picking up his shirt again, surprised that he won, somehow, and just sticking the damp cloth under his nose and inhaling. 

He isn’t sure what that does to him—or Napoleon—not to mention Gaby—and he certainly isn’t sure who gives in first as they collide over the tiny table, crushing it like a matchbox, though they later discover it’s made of some expensive wood that Napoleon will pay out of pocket handsomely to replace. They don’t care. They are a mess of scrambling, grunting, screaming, teeth and fingers, buttons and slick and mouths and kisses and hair and holes and cocks and lust—

Gaby and Illya nearly murder each other over who mounts Napoleon first, so Gaby settles for fucking her alpha while he fucks Napoleon, both them crushing Napoleon by their combined weight into the mattress. Illya doesn’t get lube, just some slick from Napoleon (there is plenty), and just enough of a stretch to get her inside him. Napoleon doesn’t even get prep: there is just the sound of tearing underwear and Illya is in. 

Far from scrambling away, Napoleon pushes himself up and back, bracing himself to bear their weight into it and his thoughts white themselves into the tide and rush. And it’s  _ good _ , real and present even while Napoleon’s thoughts disassemble themselves from anything other than the act. Illya drives into him, leaving Napoleon already impatient for his knot and gushing slick, clawing the cheap pillow into strained tension under his fingers. 

Then Gaby’s thrust shoves them both forward with a force that, were the bed not already attached to the wall and floor, would have moved the whole object. They are all distantly surprised they haven’t jumped the tracks yet. Napoleon gasps, eyes closed and just feeling, surrounded by his two alphas and a sudden, jealous possessiveness that’s entirely out of character. (He’ll never admit it, certainly not as anything other than a side effect of heat).

“Illya,” he sighs, and “Gaby.”

The rest is wordless and immediate, a driving rush that leaves Napoleon cumming all over the comforter underneath them, and then begging for more, hard again almost immediately. He feels alive, and disconnected from everything that isn’t both of them and as much of them as he can get. 

Gaby knots Illya first, coming before he can knot Napoleon, and it  _ hurts _ , but it only spurs him on, makes him hungrier, until Illya growls and bites Napoleon, hard, and comes, his knot expanding inside him, filling that hot wet body. His omega. 

_ Their omega, _ he corrects, now that he can think. He bears his weight down on Napoleon, though he knows he can’t go anywhere, and licks the spot where he left a mark. 

Napoleon does not rip the  _ pillow _ , but the case over it pops a few stitches as he gasps out, groaning low and pushing toward Illya’s mouth with a heave as his body clamps down like he never intends to let either of them go. He finds release again, his body helpless to stop or delay and normally he’d be worried that they were going to have one very large mess to sleep in. 

Gaby shoves them bodily forward, so she can be on the bed, too. “Ugh. You’re too big.” 

“You’re on top,” Napoleon breathes, forcing tension out of his body with a few deep breaths and unclenching his hands from the pillow, discarding a torn strip of pillowcase apologetically to the floor. He doesn’t want to go  _ anywhere _ , finding all of this utterly satisfying, even Illya licking the  _ mark _ he’d left like an extremely pleased tiger. “You have the least to complain about.”

“Shush,” Gaby tells him, and Napoleon is only too happy to comply, pushing his cheek against the comforter. 

“I like this game,” Napoleon observes, still panting, reaching back to dig his nails into Illya’s shoulder. 

Illya hisses, grabbing Napoleon’s hands, crushing them in his grip. He doesn’t understand how either of them are  _ talking _ . He wants both of them under him, in his arms. He should be satisfied with his knot expanded, but he’s not, he’s still starving. This is going to be a bad rut, apparently. 

Or, he thinks distantly, a very good one. 

“Hey, be nice,” Gaby snaps at him. “Relax.” 

He wants to put her over his knee. He wants to possess, to control, and when Gaby pulls out he’s already wrestling her down beside Napoleon, kissing her hard enough that she bites back. Her eyes are dark and inviting, though, and when Illya gets a hand on her cock just how he knows she likes, she yields. 

Napoleon, with little option but to relent and to take what he can get, given Illya’s almost lamentable stamina (though right now, it actually satisfied some dim part of himself the way that Illya biting him had), leans in to kiss Gaby now that they can reach each other, as Illya works on getting her hard again, probably with the intent of knotting  _ her _ next, not that Napoleon has any protest on that front. It seems like it’s better not to take tallies, this time around. 

She reaches past Illya’s rough hands where they’re squeezing her knot, body arched and open with the pleasure of it, with his strength and fierceness scratching some itch she doesn’t usually admit, and works on sinking her fingers into herself, before deciding her hands aren’t up to the task and requisitioning one of Napoleon’s out of Illya’s crushing grip.

“Easy,” she reassures Illya, kissing him again. “Easy, we’re yours. All yours. And you’re mine.”

Illya shudders, blinking to clear his vision and his thoughts. He relaxes his grip, shifts to hold them with his arms—an embrace, not a grasp. “I-I know.” 

His voice is gravelly and almost trembles. He kisses her, and then Napoleon, and allows Napoleon to move to get his hand on her. It strikes him how much he loves them; it’s enough to strangle him, and it’s as much the rut talking as himself, he knows. 

Gaby sighs, raking her fingers through his hair and tugging. “That doesn’t mean you have to be  _ gentle _ .” 

Illya actually blushes. 

“You’re gorgeous,” Gaby purrs at him, rolling her hips up into his grip and Napoleon’s pressing fingers. “I want you next. All rough edges as you are like this.”

“Yes,” Illya says, like he has any choice but to obey her.

She pulls him down for another kiss, rolling and writhing against him, though it’s a damn sight unlikely that it’s going to help his knot go down any faster, before Napoleon actually sits up, pushing Illya up with him, and shifting to crouch between her thighs, though it takes some doing with their bodies still stuck fast. He tilts her hips up toward him, and Illya can still stroke her cock and kiss her while he licks her even wetter, even more open as she gasps and sighs and bucks against both of them. 

“Fuck,” Illya says, watching them, getting harder, somehow, though he feels his knot ready to go down if only so he can fuck something else. Napoleon’s back is so pretty arched like that, disappearing at either end into his alphas. Gaby is vocal—too vocal for the train, probably—pulling Napoleon’s hair and coming all over her chest as he buries his tongue inside her. 

She pulls Napoleon back up for a kiss then, and tells him, “I’m going to fuck you while Illya fucks me, pretty omega.”

Napoleon practically purrs at the thought, pausing to lick one thin smear off her chest before they kiss, but he’s out of words again. The first blush is satisfied, the second rising quick even as the pressure from Illya’s knot slowly decreases. He waits exactly long enough so that when he surges forward, Illya grinds free with a pop, leaving them both gasping.

Gaby immediately wrestles Napoleon over, shoving him down on his back on the mattress this time so she can have her hands on him, holding on tightly enough to leave small indents at his hips and liking the picture of her seeming delicacy holding his obvious strength at bay.

“You liked waiting so much earlier,” Gaby says, now that she has the advantage. “I should make you wait now, Cowboy.”

Napoleon’s eyes open at that, blue and sharp and fierce. “Don’t you dare.”

Illya actually laughs aloud at this, and Gaby does seem to be taking her time, holding him down, legs spread, while she lets Illya finger him open—mainly to get slick on his fingers, so he can use it to work Gaby open, nearly driven to distraction by her gasps. 

“You hold still,” she warns Napoleon, grabbing his throat when he won’t obey, and letting Illya soak his hand inside him before pushing that slickness into her. 

“Almost ready,” Illya says, going back for more. 

“Glad to be of convenience,” Napoleon growls, but Gaby holds him steady, pushing her fingers into Illya’s bite-shaped bruise already darkening past pink at the back of Napoleon’s shoulder. She fully intends to give him a matching one on the other side, asserting her equal right to claim. 

And Napoleon  _ lets  _ them, and that’s heady and dizzying too, how being allowed to plunder him like this feels so delicious. And Gaby is in control even as she allows him to have every part of her. And Illya knows, deep down, no matter how thick the fog of rut gets, he’s only ever going to do what they want him to, like their instrument. He opens Gaby with his fingers and thinks on these things, and then kisses the back of her neck. 

Finally,  _ finally _ , Illya seems satisfied, and she lifts herself up over Napoleon to let Illya ease into her, though it’s still a squeeze even after all their practice together. Gaby shoves back when Illya tries to go easy and slow, reaching back to grab his thigh and pull him forward.

“Go on, alpha, show me your wild side,” she demands. 

The kiss turns into a bite—not hard enough to leave a mark, no, but he could fit the entire back of her narrow neck in his jaw if he turns his head—and he groans as he pushes into her, and she pushes back into him. They have a few moments where no one’s knotted where they rock back and forth, into and out of each other, grunting and sweating and going hard, like they both hadn’t just come minutes ago, and seeking their own release like a race (except they both knew exactly how hard Napoleon likes it, so it’s a race for him as well). 

“God—yes—Gaby—” Illya gasps, and finds one of Napoleon’s hands, and links their fingers together. 

This, Napoleon’s thoughts lazily gather together to decide, is exactly what he wants and needs. Now if they could just keep it up for the next three days or so. He squeezes Illya’s fingers in return and then yelps when Gaby bites him just as sharply on the opposite side of his neck and holds on there as she drives deep into him to take her turn at claiming him, answering the call in both their bodies. 

“Gaby,” Napoleon repeats, tighter in tone as her teeth pinch his skin mercilessly almost growling to both of them as she shoves her hips forward one last time roughly before she’s stuck fast, though even then she keeps grinding her hips in time until Napoleon also hisses his release through his teeth, and finally the scent of all three of them together is almost  _ almost _ satisfactorily mingled.

Illya follows soon after, and is immediately ready to go again, stopped only by his knot swelling inside Gaby and locking them together. He still feels wound tight and like he’d fight and kill anyone who even looked at Napoleon or Gaby right now, but having them  _ here  _ calms the savage part of him. He kisses Gaby’s neck, her hair, and braces himself on his elbows to bend down to kiss Napoleon, sweet but possessive. 

“I love you,” he finally manages, and it isn’t the rut talking. He doesn’t think he’s said that since Napoleon ran away, so it feels like the first time again. 

Gaby echoes the sentiment immediately, breathless and high-pitched with everything in her body feeling trapped between them. Every time they move, it’s inevitable that they all do. She kind of  _ likes _ this. “I love you too.”

“I’m warming up to the pair of you,” Napoleon admits, but when Illya’s eyes start to get hard, Napoleon opens his own, dazed and glassy with pleasure, and turns Illya’s mouth back to his own for another kiss, leaning up, kissing next the shell of Illya’s ear. “I love you too, Peril.”

It’s dangerously close to the sort of admission that Napoleon avoids in general, except when used to manipulate others. If he’d said it louder, announced it to the world, it would have felt less genuine. These words are  _ just _ for them, undergoing the same transformation Napoleon himself does in their presence. 

And they both know it. Gaby presses a soft kiss to his throat, and Illya draws his hand up to his mouth, to kiss his palm, and then his wrist at the pulse point, and then up the inside of his arm as far as he can reach, letting Napoleon’s hand settle in his hair. 

“You're  _ so _ pretty,” Gaby hums, tracing the lines of Napoleon’s face with her fingertips. “Isn't he pretty, Illya?”

Illya nods, transfers one kiss to the shell of her ear. “So are you.”

“Not like this,” she insists. “Not enough to make everyone who sees me insane with jealousy. Not enough to cause an international incident. Not enough to have and control and keep two alphas.”

“You do better,” Illya points out, teasing, and maybe he lets himself relax a bit, because she does: “you have alpha and omega.”

“It’s almost more than any of us can handle,” Napoleon agrees, yawning. He flexes his fingers into Illya’s hair, which is surprisingly soft. Maybe the softest part of him, except for his heart. Napoleon enjoys the sensation. Perhaps as much as he enjoys being praised and coveted by the pair. 

He kisses Gaby next, shifting just a little though it makes them all groan. “We should rest. I’ll be quite out of my mind when I wake up, and I’m sure I’ll need both of you.”

Gaby scoffs, tossing hair out of her face and into Illya’s face. “Will you, though? You’re always frustratingly lucid during heats.”

“Better that I am,” Napoleon chuckles. “Or would you rather I spent all my time a senseless sex zombie, when Illya’s incapable of having his knot go down in under twenty minutes?”

Illya also scoffs. He is sure he would choose fucking his partners over air at this point. “Rest? I hope you do not mind if I continue, then.”

“Me too,” Gaby grins. “Will you be left out?”

Napoleon shakes his head, fondly. 

Illya curls around them, kissing Napoleon and then kissing Gaby. “We mustn’t tire ourselves out,” he teases. “Then where will Cowboy be when he wakes?” 

“Frustrated that we’re tired, no doubt,” Gaby says, the dig softened by a wink and a kiss. Her knot is relaxing, and she gives him a good thrust, feeling the slosh of come already deep inside him (and feeling satisfied about that, a primal need sated) before she pulls out of him. 

“Stay,” Illya says, when Napoleon looks like he’s going to try to get up. “We won’t make much noise.” 

“Just rock you to sleep,” Gaby laughs. 

“Keep one bed clean,” Illya groans, pulling Gaby closer to him and stroking her cock again, since she’s entirely too sassy for still being stuffed with his cock. 

Napoleon groans at the rush of mess that exits his body, dripping embarrassingly on the coverlet. He also doesn’t believe either of them when they suggest they wouldn’t make much noise, but he pulls the much abused pillow closer and tucks it under his head, eyes heavy-lidded as he watchs them.

“Mmm, why not just mess up the whole cabin?” Gaby wondered. “I’ve always wanted to bend Napoleon over a table. You, too, but it would take more doing. I think I’d need to stand on a box.”

Illya pulls his gaze from the rush of come and slick that pours out of Napoleon, running over his balls and thighs. He wants to lick it up and bury his face in his hole, but Napoleon shifts and rolls over, and Illya refocuses on Gaby, giving her cock a warm squeeze. 

She groans and sighs, loving how Illya’s big hand could curl around so much of her, so that his motions didn’t have to be very much in order to stroke her whole cock, especially with how sensitive she feels right now. Not in a bad way, just keyed up. The heavy burn of a lot of sex. 

“Maybe you fuck me more  _ gently  _ next time,” Illya whispers, kissing her neck, both hands roaming over her, massaging her breasts and thighs and continuing to stroke her cock while they’re joined together like this. “So we do not wake Cowboy.” 

“Is that what you want?” she asks, husky and pleased with the request. “Long and slow and soft?”

Illya nods, whispers, “Like the first time.”

She leans back against him, and then harder until he leans back too, until he has his shoulders against the wall of the berth, and she turns in his arms to lean over him, giving him a kiss, then another, as she reached down to stretch his sore entrance with her fingers this time, first.

“You look a proper wreck,” she informs him, smiling at his undone hair and bright eyes. 

Illya hisses slightly, though he’s more than impressed with how she turns on him—it might be funny, but she’s so flexible it’s more awe-inspiring than anything. “Yes, well. I have two of you to keep track of, don’t I?” 

He surges forward to kiss her, letting her fingers have their way with him until his knot goes down and frees her to do more. 

“You do take care of us,” she agrees, sighing as she lifts herself off him at last, turning all the way to tuck her knees under his, sliding another finger into him to see if he’ll protest all four of her slim digits curling their way inside. “Let me take care of you now, hmm?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Illya says, grunting but taking her fingers. It does sting, but in a way he kind of wants. He lies back and takes a breath. He doesn’t remember when he last took one. “I-I am sorry I was rough before…” 

“I enjoyed it,” she says, leaning in to kiss him on his apologetic mouth. “Napoleon enjoyed it. Didn’t you Napoleon?”

It would give away his feigned sleep for Napoleon to respond, so he doesn’t, but they both know the answer.

“It’s okay to be rough once in a while. I was rough with you too,” she says, spreading her fingers inside him a little to show him where it’s sore from her earlier efforts, and considering—briefly—trying to work her knuckles into him in slow surges to properly have a fist in his guts before she reconciles that she has a perfectly good knot for that, and withdraws her fingers to guide herself in, easy and slick with a little extra lubricant from between Napoleon’s legs.

She takes him in slow, small surges, humming her approval in low sounds. “I like all your sides. The soft sides, the hard sides, the rough sides…”

“Your sides, too,” Illya says, breath hitching slightly as she enters him. He bites his lip and gives her a shit-eating grin: “Your wicked side, your cruel side, your mean side…”

She shoves her hips forward a few inches to give him something to think about. “You do love those things, though.”

“Of course I do,” he says, and swallows nervously and looks at her from under long eyelashes. “I also love your sweet and gentle sides.” 

She changes her angle a little, keeping things smooth and sweet, like he’d asked, more a slow surging motion like waves against the shore than their earlier rough handling of each other. It feels good, too. Her body is sensitive from already orgasming so many times, and well, friction. It intensifies this so that even a little softer means she really feels it, and she’s betting Illya does too. She presses her mouth against the top of his belly, which is just about as high as she can reach, and kisses there, sighs against his skin. 

Illya’s never felt this before: being in rut but not hurried or anxious about it, not desperate. Everything he has is here, twice over, and he rocks into Gaby’s movements without hurry, and pulls her down only so he can kiss her and run his hands through her hair and they can move slower. He doesn’t need his knot touched, and he almost wonders if it’ll swell just on its own. He knows he’s going to come, just from Gaby’s sweet attention, just from her cock inside him, where no one but her and Napoleon has ever touched him. 

Napoleon—

Illya reaches across to him, lays a hand on the small of his back, just to feel him breathing, and then Gaby rocks into his prostate and he comes, this time with a softer cry, more like a sigh. 

She follows after, his body squeezing hers just enough as he finds release to ease one out of her, too. Not quite as intense as her previous, but longer-lasting, leaving her thighs shaking and her body quivering until she eased down against him and felt his breath heaving in time with hers,  counterpoint to Napoleon’s slower and deeper; he really was out now, and she reached out too, running her sticky fingers up Napoleon’s side like she could write her name there and keep him.

“I like this,” she says, pleased by the whole picture, the whole situation. 

“Me, too,” Illya gasps, throwing an arm around her, holding her, planting unending kisses in her hair as she sprawls across his chest. The cards are strewn everywhere and sticky, and they realize that the window to the country rolling by outside has been open this whole time. Illya laughs and repeats, “Me, too.” 


	4. Chapter 4

Whether it’s by good luck or design, things don’t go wrong until after they’ve slowed from the fever pitch of the first few days, until they’re in the messy, sore, slow aftermath of the ordeal. The train’s very small shower has hardly been up to the task, and the sheets are gritty  and tacky in places and Napoleon’s fairly certain the whole train car should be detached and run through decontamination before it’s lent to the next group of guests, but he doesn’t care much about it. Instead he feels raw and tender and fucked out, even as they continue to do little aside from sleep and wake up and have slow sex until all of them are utterly beyond the concept of any more genital contact.

What should be a good, long, sleep it off is interrupted rudely when the train jerks to a halt in the middle of some snowy mountains, on a high bridge in the middle of nowhere. 

Napoleon’s the first awake, and the first to hate being awake. “Why are we stopping?”

Illya, who is sleeping quite contentedly on top of both of them (the small bed allows for little else), grumbles, like a bear disturbed from hibernation. But the constant rocking of the train that has soothed him to sleep for so many nights (not so many nights: so many  _ sleeps _ , because they have been sleeping so much, but probably only two or three nights have passed) has stopped, and he grunts and lifts his head. 

“Maybe it is the snow. Go back to sleep, Cowboy,” he says, patting his ass. 

Napoleon, sore in places he hadn’t been aware he could be, now feels the urgent need of his bladder now that he was conscious. It didn’t help that there was a giant Russian pressing on it. He pushes Illya off enough to extract himself.

“You’re probably right, but I have this feeling....” Napoleon excuses himself into the bathroom with a faint shiver from the air temperature, and tries to tell himself the feeling will drain away at the same time. It doesn’t, of course.

He starts to get back into bed, but  _ something _ is prickling on his awareness, and he sighs and recovers a fresh pair of underwear from his valise, pulling that onto his relatively clean body and following it with a pair of pants. “I’m going to go have a look.” 

“Cowboy,” Gaby whines, reaching for him. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I agree,” Napoleon says, pulling her hand to his mouth to press a kiss to her knuckles. “But better to know.”

But Illya had sat up, too. 

“No whistle,” he says, looking at Napoleon. A whistle would send the crew to the front of the train, perhaps to clear an obstruction, or to indicate a stop. 

The alphas scramble to their feet to join their omega. 

“What a trio we’ll make,” Napoleon says, pausing only to undo some of the bird’s nest of Gaby’s hair so they didn’t all look  _ quite _ so ridiculous.

Outside of their train car it’s freezing, and Napoleon regrets his bare feet as he makes his way to the next car, passing through several sleeper cars and seeing people in doorways, wrapped up in blankets, looking every bit as confused as he moves toward the dining car. 

“Everyone please remain calm,” a train official is calling, looking far too nervous for any mechanical failure. Napoleon sees another man with his eyes on the employee, watching hard. “It’s just a little trouble with the tracks and we will clear it soon and be on our way.”

Illya ducks them into the umbilical between the cars for some privacy, turns to Gaby and Napoleon and says quietly, “I will check the tracks. If that is all there is wrong, they could use my help.”

Gaby nods minutely. 

“I'll keep my eye on this fellow,” she says, eyes on the train official that none of them recognize. “See if I can find out what has him so nervous.”

“I think I’ll have a look at the back end of the train,” Napoleon says. “Seems like an awful lot of attention is being diverted to the front.”

They split up, to do a little casual recon. Napoleon is pleased by how easily they co-ordinate; perhaps even more in sync than usual, given how much of each other’s scent they’re all still wearing. He pauses to pull on a sweater, and a pair of his shoes with good grip, and then ventures back into the baggage car, to see what treasures he can find that might have caught anyone else’s eye.

Gaby meanwhile settles into one of the dining car chairs, and tries to get a sense for the situation. The man doing the announcing is clearly scared, but the other doesn’t seem that way. His hands stay below the level of the table, out of sight. 

So do hers.

Illya does find a genuine track obstruction that the crew is dealing with, which makes him worry a little less, but doesn’t calm him completely. The faster he can help them clear this rockslide, the better, and the sooner he can get back to Gaby and Napoleon and see what’s really going on. He rolls up his sleeves, and the crew stops telling him to not help when they see the size of rocks he can lift by himself. 

Napoleon’s journey to the cargo car would otherwise be uneventful, save for the two thieves obviously trying to pry open a wooden crate with a crowbar. He ducks back quickly, avoiding notice. Just what he thought. He’s not sure, however, if he has time to go get Gaby and Illya, before these two make off with whatever it is they plan on stealing from the train. No need to stop it if they weren’t getting off, after all. 

Briefly considering his options, Napoleon decides to press in and rely on his hand-to-hand. 

“Lose something, gentlemen?”

The slightly bigger of the two thieves—the alpha, Napoleon could tell by the smell—came at him with a crowbar, much faster than he expected, but not really fast enough. With the finesse of the bullfighter (and similar timing) Napoleon eases aside, ducking down and sweeping the man’s legs out from under him to send him crashing down against several more of the crates. Plucking the crowbar from insensate fingers, Napoleon turned on the other fellow, who quailed a little. 

“I don’t suppose you’d like to do this the easy way?” Napoleon asks, advancing.

Judging his options, the other man turns and flees, jumping off the back of the train. Napoleon locks the carriage door behind him and sets to work tying up the unconscious alpha before dragging him out of the cargo car and into the occupied compartments, where he finds a closet to lock him in. It’ll hold for a little while, anyway. Until the situation resolves, he’d bet. 

He keeps the crowbar down by his leg as he returns to Gaby, reaching down for her hand and pressing the weapon into it out of sight of the rest of the passengers. “Darling, there was some trouble in the baggage car after all.”

She glances up at him. “Did you take care of it?”

He nods, serenely. “Has our companion made any headway at the head of the train?”

The answer comes as the train gives a little lurch and starts moving forward, slowly. They wait for Illya to appear, perhaps, ideally, flushed and glad to have worked off some of that rut-adrenaline. 

But he doesn’t appear. 

Illya doesn’t even know he’s remotely in trouble before he goes down with a bright flare of pain through his skull, and wakes up to a sensation of falling. 

And realizes he actually is falling. He flails, but before the sensation can really register as panic, he stops falling with a jerk, and looks down (or, rather, up) to see his feet tied to a rope hanging across the tracks, and who he  _ thought  _ were the train crew running back onto the train. 

Aside from a splitting headache, Illya realizes next that his hands are tied, too, presumably so he can’t climb the rope. That’s what they think, he tells himself as he swings up and grabs the rope holding his feet on the first try. 

There is a moment where Napoleon knows they are in trouble, though it comes from no logical certainty as they start to move. Maybe it's foolishness brought on by the pair of twin marks on his neck giving a twinge. Maybe it's just that Illya isn't standing right here.

He and Gaby get up as one, looking to see the crew getting back on board the train, but no Illya.

They see him, hanging from the bridge that takes the train over a deep gorge.

Napoleon makes an awkward dismount as the train gets going and then catches Gaby, setting her on her feet, though the cast makes it awkward, and only then spots the rope the train wheels are thumping over and cutting. He lunges for it, dropping Gaby unceremoniously. The train picks up speed overhead.

“Illya!” Gaby calls, scrambling into the network of maintenance scaffolding and reaching for him, but he’s still too far below.  

Even though the wheels have been rolling over the rope for several seconds, fraying it steadily, Illya doesn’t panic until he sees Napoleon and Gaby. Why did they get off the train? Why are they here? They could be killed!

But self-preservation beats back alpha machismo and need to protect his pack for long enough that he stops climbing the rope. 

“Grab onto Gaby!” he shouts, and swings himself, and lunges for her outstretched hand. No matter how strong, she’s not heavy enough to hold him, and when their hands meet she threatens to tumble down into the gorge with him. 

Napoleon is already trying to wedge himself into scaffolding and hang onto the rope, which Illya seems to be swinging frantically on. He is just getting his feet braced when he sees Gaby give a lurch and start to slip, and he finally obeys Illya’s order to get hold of her, though he has to let go of the rope.

He clamps his arms around her middle, and hopes the extra weight means Illya is still being held onto.

“Get the rope, too,” Napoleon grunts, trying to heave them up, onto something solid. 

“I've got him,” Gaby says, her hands like a vise on Illya’s wrists. “We've got you, Illya.”

Illya clings to her, hands and ankles still tied, or else he would be much more useful in this situation. But the rope snaps at that moment, and they haul him free, all braced in the scaffolding as the last train car rolls by overhead. 

In the silence filled only with panting, Illya swears. “What the fuck just happened?” 

“We think Napoleon took care of the actual thieves while you nearly got yourself killed, requiring our rescue,” Gaby explains. 

Illya bristles. “You should not have gotten off the train. I would have been fine, met you at next stop.” 

“Can we finish rescuing you before you start complaining about it?” Napoleon asks, working the knots free in the rope. “We'll have plenty of time to argue about it on the walk.”

He is glad he at least stopped for his shoes, even if he's sure the leather will be ruined by the snow and walk.

“Illya, you couldn't survive that fall,” Gaby snaps, and then yanks him to her, kissing him in relief.

“I was climbing the—” Illya begins to protest, but her kiss cuts him off and gives him time to think about how stupid that was. They part, lips wet, and Illya corrects himself: “I mean, of course, thank you.”

He turns to Napoleon, and pulls him into a kiss as well. “Thank you. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s quite alright,” Napoleon assures him, pulling him close possessively. “Everyone’s safe, as always. How’s your head?”

“Yes, are you alright? There’s a big goose egg back here,” Gaby says, concerned, reaching out to very gently touch the lump on the back of Illya’s head to check for any further injury. 

Gaby’s hand comes back tacky with blood, but the air is cool enough that it hadn’t bled much. 

“Uh. Yes. It is fine,” he says, staring at the blood in shock. “I am sorry I…”

“Well at least you were caught out being kind,” Gaby said with a wry grin. “Speaking of kindness, and apologies, that’s a lovely-looking sweater you’re wearing…” 

“Get me onto solid ground before you go stealing my clothes,” Illya teases back, as they climb back, adrenaline-shaky, up onto the bridge. 

“I believe I saw station not too far back,” Illya suggests, as he takes off his sweater and Gaby pulls it on. “But also head injury, so who knows.” 

“I hope you’re right,” Napoleon says, glancing back along the track. “But it’ll be safer if we go this way than ahead, we’ll be able to see trains coming toward us, rather than have them coming up behind us.”

“Alright,” Gaby says, drawing herself up. 

“Hang on a second,” Napoleon says, fishing around in his pockets until he comes up with a folded dry-cleaning bag, which he slips over Gaby’s cast to keep it from getting soaked and heavy in the snow. “I hope this thing can come off soon, Gaby, it must be driving you crazy.”

“It just smells,” she says, “but since I live with you two, I’m used to it.” 

“I will carry you,” Illya offers. “You should not walk on this leg, anyway.” 

“I don’t need it.” 

“Well, if you change your mind, it would be warmer for me,” he points out, just enough of a dig for it to feel genuine. 

After just a few minutes of walking in the snow, therefore, she agrees, and climbs onto Illya’s back, clinging to his shoulders. Luckily, she’s wearing trousers. 

At the halfway mark, Napoleon switches with Illya to carry her, mostly for the opportunity for warmth, letting Illya break the higher drifts as they descend back down to the town. 

“Well, our luggage is a loss yet again,” Napoleon says, only a little breathless, giving Gaby’s thighs a squeeze where he’s holding them to help keep her braced on his back. “I’ve never thrown my lot in with anyone so hard on my wardrobe before.”

“Are you really complaining about getting to buy new clothes?” Gaby asks, with her nose pressed into his neck. His breath is steaming in the freezing air.

“Yes,” Napoleon says. “I don’t have inexpensive taste.”

“He forgets how much we like seeing him naked,” Illya teases, shoveling snow with his legs so that Napoleon’s walking is easier. When they are within sight of the station, he turns back. “Are you alright? I’ll go ahead and call police, and cab, and Waverly.” 

“No, there’s three of us. Three calls,” Napoleon says. “You call the police, I’ll arrange for a hotel, and Waverly likes Gaby the best. She can call him. And I fully intend on not leaving this place until Gaby’s cast is off, so he can find some other way of dealing with those half-foiled art thieves.”

“It very much depends where we are,” Gaby says. It’s rural Germany, so Waverly could set them up in a castle or a cabin. 

But they set the station abuzz when they say they were thrown from the train, and at their bedraggled and injured state. It does appear to be a small community, and Gaby does most of the talking. They are able to phone the police, leave a message for Waverly, and get some blankets and strong coffee from the helpful station attendants. Illya is confident the little old alphas have something of a crush on the strapping American, but Illya doesn’t fault them for it and doesn’t get jealous. Neither does Gaby: maybe they are both learning, or maybe the old ones don’t seem to be a threat. As long as Napoleon likes the attention—and as long as they keep giving him things, anyway, as he has now procured them sandwiches and cigarettes as well while they wait for Waverly to rescue them. 

Their rescue comes in the form of new orders; Waverly’s men are tied up in retrieving the villains from the train and recovering the antiques they’d been trying to steal. Not really UNCLE’s job to stop train heists, but they had happened to be there, after all. They are to get on the next train and continue to their destination.

“But  _ first _ ,” Gaby says. “The doctor has offered to finally take this cast off. I think two days early shouldn’t really hurt anything, so long as I have you boys to oblige me.”

“Always,” Illya promises. “I won’t let you stand up to do anything.” 

“I said  _ oblige  _ me,” she groans, “not  _ smother  _ me.” 

“Picky, picky,” Illya laughs. 

After a short trip to the doctor’s office from which Gaby emerges wearing two shoes, the next train has a suite already prepared for them, and their luggage, they are assured, waits for them at the next stop.

“I almost feel bad for whoever had to repack our luggage. Or clean out our suite,” Gaby says, with a bit of a playful grimace.

Napoleon winces in genuine apologetic terror. “Best not to think about it. I’m glad I won’t have to make eye contact with anyone involved.” 

He’s still in his shirtsleeves, and not even a waistcoat, and doing his best not to feel naked. At least he has his shoes, though they’re soaked through. He’s glad to sit, when the opportunity presents itself, though he pauses to touch Illya briefly as they settle in, not quite examining him but feeling how solid he is and checking him for signs of being shaken by the danger he’d faced hanging from the train tracks. 

But he’s Illya, stable and sturdy beyond what he has any right to be, and Napoleon supposes the only marks will be on his ankles and not his psyche. 

“I won’t have to buy a whole new wardrobe after all,” Napoleon laments, putting himself in Illya’s lap.

Napoleon’s weight punches a little bit of air out of Illya, but his arms go around him instinctively, shaking himself from wherever his thoughts had gone. “Shame, we could have gotten you a decent wardrobe.” 

Gaby actually laughs, so score one to him. 

“Your ideas of decent include creative mismatching,” Napoleon reminds, with clear distaste. “I have details of our next mission, speaking of wardrobes. We’ll have to do something about yours.”

“Do I need to dress like an old man? This is the only way I am letting you pick clothes for me,” Illya says. Mostly, they play up the bickering about clothes because Gaby finds it bafflingly amusing, and after such an ordeal, maybe she’s humoring him. Maybe they both are, he supposes. 

“Right in one,” Napoleon says, lifting himself out of Illya’s lap, and letting him worry about what all that means.


End file.
